


The Sweetest Submission

by tangerinabina_de_archanea



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Pegging, bottom seteth rights!, byleth pegs him on the desk. that's it. that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinabina_de_archanea/pseuds/tangerinabina_de_archanea
Summary: Seteth works himself too hard, and Byleth is determined to make him take a break.Written forCourage, My Love, a setleth zine.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25
Collections: Courage My Love: A Setleth Zine





	The Sweetest Submission

**Author's Note:**

> to everyone who's read Selfish Prayers and always wanted more desk sex- this fic is dedicated to you

Seteth rarely has time to relax, or so he claims. It’s not that it’s not available to him; it’s just that he likes to fill up what  _ should _ be relaxation time with things like responsibilities and extra work and getting a head start on work for tomorrow. As advisor to the archbishop, he is always busy, and as a saint of the church, he is even busier. 

(“But Seteth,” Byleth had said one day, “no one even  _ knows  _ that you’re Saint Cichol.”

“I fail to see how that means I should be allowed to shirk my responsibilities as a saint.”

“What responsibilities? The saints have none. For all intents and purposes you’re dead.”

“Moral obligations,” he sniffed, and the conversation was left at that.)

As she plots to finally make him take a break, she considers her options. Sweet seduction would surely be the most charming, but she’s not very good at being subtle, admittedly; things like little quirks of eyebrows or changes of expression are lost on her. She’s not good with words, either, like he is- oh, the sinful things that fall from that man’s lips when he forgets to be reserved are enough to make her weak in the knees- so what she says tends to be stunted and her actions blunt. 

When she says she wants to ride him, she says it plainly, usually accompanied by the unbuckling of armor and robes, or when she says she wants to fuck him, the toy is usually on his desk before she even gets the words out. She considers that maybe she should simply be forthright, as per usual, and yet….

There are some days where she gets things right, where she’s able to find the right words and lean in and whisper that she wants to make him feel good without it being awkward, and she gets to hear the little treat of his heightened breathing in response to just her voice.

Luckily for her, today is one of those days.

He’s quiet and focused on his work when she enters his office, only greeting her with a simple nod and seemingly ignoring the way that she slowly moves behind him. He’s learned not to question his wife much anymore; she never does anything without a reason. However, him ignoring her simply won’t do, and so she leans down to get his attention.

Seeing how tense he is, she starts with a shoulder massage–a common enough occurrence that he doesn’t initially understand her intentions. With a small sigh, he relaxes slightly, and his lips quirk upwards as he mumbles his thanks, but still he persists with that damned paperwork that takes such a toll on him. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Reviewing budget proposals.”

“Mm.” She rubs him in silence, enjoying the way that his quill occasionally stutters in response to her finding a particularly tense muscle.

It’s not enough, apparently, and so she slowly draws her fingers up the side of his face to tuck his hair back behind his ears, lingering delicately on the sensitive tips.  _ That _ makes him shiver, and she smiles a little, pleased at his reaction before leaning down again.

“You need to take a break,” she murmurs, her hands ghosting over his shoulders and down his chest as her teeth find the pointed tip of his ear. Even in the dim light at this hour, lit from behind by the moon and from the front by candles, she can see the way he flushes, his cheeks dusted pink and his lips parting. Her shadow slides over his desk as she leans forward, her hands finding more of him as he sinks back into the chair, into her standing behind it.

“There is much to do,” he says in response, his voice low, lost somewhere halfway between exasperation and excitement.

“Yes, there is,” she agrees, her fingers tracing slow circles on each of his buttons before undoing them. “You, for starters.”

He chuckles at that, the sound reverberating in his chest, a warm, pleasant sensation underneath her hands as familiar as his heartbeat.

She loves him more than words can say. It’s why she’s so insistent now. 

“You work too hard.” 

“So I’ve been told.”

One by one, the buttons of his jacket come undone, and so does he. It’s funny, she thinks, as she repeats the process with his crisp white undershirt, how someone so uptight and prim can fall apart so easily. Maybe it’s  _ because _ of the fact that he’s wound so tight, or maybe it’s because she knows all the right ways to touch her husband and drive him mad. She likes to think it’s the latter. “Then let me take care of you.”

When her hands find his skin, he sighs, but he’s still tense; the paperwork on his desk isn’t quite forgotten yet. “Byleth, please,” he protests or begs, or maybe a bit of both. Even now his hand is still clutching his quill, and his eyes dart away from his wife to the piles and piles of documents that demand his attention. He’s stubborn like that. However, so is she, and she is even more demanding than any scrap of parchment can be. 

“Shh, shh…” she shushes him, and his hand relaxes, ink dotting the page as the quill falls from his hand. “I want to make you feel good, baby.” Her fingers curl in his chest hair before continuing on their way down, tugging his shirt open further before returning upwards and making slow, lazy circles on his skin with her blunt tips of her nails. “I want you only to think of me.”

He inhales, holding it for a few seconds as she pauses, then deeply exhales, her hands rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. His heartbeat is heightened, she notices as she explores him further, waiting for his response. With a swallow, he presses his lips together. “Do you?”

There’s no hesitation in his voice now, only interest. It’s the sign that she was looking for, the unspoken permission that she needs to continue.

“Yes.” She slides around him to sit in his lap, pleased to find that his body is already responding to her presence. Only a few words and touches and he’s already like putty in her hands. She wants to see more of it. 

Slowly, almost lazily, she rocks her hips against him, watching his lips part as his breath quickens. His hands find her thighs, then her ass, urging her on, already desperate for her body. For a few moments, she allows what he wants, dragging herself against his cock as the anticipation builds in her core. He’s always so quick to grow eager, a testament to both his self control throughout the day and his impatience. It gives her a rush to know that she can break him down so easily.

She makes quick work of his belt and his shirt, easing it down over his shoulders and to his wrists before giving them a gentle smack. “No more touching, alright? And stay still.”

Pressing his lips together, he nods and lets her guide his hands to the chair’s arms, tense as she grinds against him. “You can be quite cruel, you know.”

“I know,” she smiles, casting his shirt and belt aside. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

“For you, perhaps.” He watches her with a steady gaze as she sheds her shirt and underthings, revealing her bare breasts beneath.

“Oh, so you don’t enjoy this?” Leisurely, she drags herself against the bulge in his pants, putting more of her weight into it and ending with her breasts tantalizingly close to his face. 

“Quite the contrary,” he replies in a strangled voice, inhaling deeply as his fingers dig into the arms of the chair. 

“Mmhmm…” She shifts so that she’s straddling his legs, one knee resting just out of reach of his growing erection. “I can see that.” A gentle press of her knee makes him sigh, and she regards him for a moment, how he restrains himself even if she can tell how much it tortures him. 

She’ll allow him a small kindness.

“You can move. Go on.”

With a groan of relief, he does, rutting against her leg. Again, much too rushed, she decides, with how quickly he’s moving.

“Are you thinking about your paperwork again?” 

His movement stutters for a moment, as does his voice. “I-I beg your pardon?”

“You’re impatient, baby. You’re not thinking about getting back to it, are you?”

Even as he searches for an excuse, his thrusts quicken, hastened by need. “Byleth, please…”

“Patience, Cichol… Patience,” she murmurs, gently placing a hand on his hip to stop him. The use of his true name makes him shudder as her lips find his neck and her nose scratches against his beard. “There will be time for that later. Don’t think of it now. Let’s enjoy our time together.”

She demands so much of him, whether it be in battle or in bed, and he always gives it; support, pleasure, patience, and above all, love. Even now he shakes underneath her touch as she teases him, but he obeys her, because he loves her, because he’d never do anything but what she asked of him, because he trusts that she will take care of him as well as he does her.

Slowly, he nods, and she rises, stepping back to lean against his desk. “Tell me when to stop undressing, okay?” Another nod from him as she bends down to pull off her boots, and a wolfish gaze as she tugs her shorts down. 

She’s wearing nothing underneath her tights, just for this occasion, because she knows how tempting he finds it. The seam on the back of her tights could attest to that fact, a relic of the first time she’d teased him like this. In his eagerness to bury his cock in her, he’d accidentally ripped them open, only to shamefully fix them later with profuse apologies as she lazed on the couch in his office, smirking as he flushed when she told him how much she’d enjoyed it. She’d always offered that up to him again, provided he’d fix it, but in his stern, reasonable way he’d reminded her that repeated tearing would damage the structure of the tights to a point where they would be irreparable, and if she allowed him to do it again then he surely wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing it again, and again, and again… that last part had made  _ her _ flush at the thought.

“Stop,” he says once she steps out of her shorts, and she grins, turning around to bend over his desk and give him a full view. Conveniently, she knocks some of his papers down in the process, out of his sight and hopefully out of his mind. She’ll be sure to clean them up later. For now, though, she glances back at him over her shoulder to see him staring at her, eyes wide and grip on the chair tight.

“Well?”

“Lovely as always,” he sighs, looking utterly besotted. “You never fail to amaze me, my love.”

“Oh, Seteth…” she mumbles, flustered even as her lips curl into a smile, the odd, unpracticed one that he always compliments even if she feels it is not lovely. It’s not fair when he suddenly decides to be all sincere and sweet like that. Accepting praise has never been among her strengths.

“May I?”

Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, she mumbles a “yes,” and he leans forward to taste her through the lace. Her shoulders draw up as she inhales, lost in the feeling of his tongue on her for a few brief moments before reaching behind her and pushing his head back, signalling for him to stop. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy it, of course–she loves it–but tonight is about him.

“Lean back,” she tells him, and he’s barely done so before she’s on his neck again, licking and biting him as her hands find his chest, squeezing and kneading with a careful, practiced touch. When her fingers brush against his nipples he gasps, but she doesn’t quite return to them until after she bites more firmly down on his neck, strong enough to leave a bruise beneath his collar as she pinches and squeezes, and then she travels down, down, undoing the lacings on his pants as she does and leaving kisses and marks in her wake. 

She’d been surprised, many years ago, to discover that he loved the rough treatment, as long as there was no evidence of it that couldn’t be covered up by clothing. It had made her curious to see what other secrets he was keeping close to his (rather ample) chest.

Over their years of marriage, she’d studied the ways to break him down as efficiently as she might a battle tactic. Teeth are a must- she can tell by the way that his breath grows ragged as she drags them across his skin, or the way he chokes back a moan when she clenches them- and his chest is fairly sensitive, if one knows the right way to handle it.

With Seteth, the implicit is more powerful than the explicit. Outright nudity tends to make him more confident, not counting the first few times he’d seen her naked and been a flustered mess. Only the slightest hint, however, would make him crumble in an instant. A ghost of a touch there, a slip of skin here, a whisper and a firm grip–all of these could undo that carefully cultivated air of control and restraint and piety more quickly than her mouth on his cock could.

Of course, her mouth on his cock could never hurt, either.

He sighs as her lips find his length, pressing kisses to it in a way that could almost be chaste if she were not on her knees before him. With half-lidded eyes he watches her, his cock twitching expectantly as she teases him. A kiss here, a lick there–only just enough to give him a taste of what he wants, but not the whole feast.

When she looks up to meet his gaze, his head framed by a halo of moonlight, it’s hard to forget that he is a saint, a celebrated, holy man of the church. 

She wants to see him come undone at the hands of his goddess.

In a quick motion she takes him to the hilt, wringing a sharp gasp from him that dissolves into moans as she languidly bobs her head, fucking her throat open on his length.

“Byleth… Byleth, oh, Byleth…” Her name sounds so sweet on his tongue as she takes him in again and again, acutely aware of her own arousal. The cold air of his office only amplifies it, with the way that it makes her nipples harden and sends a chill through her slick pussy, as does the silence; besides the occasional sputter of a candle, all she hears are the obscene sounds of his cock in her mouth, his whines and gasps and sobs in response to her ministrations, and the creak of the chair as he clutches it ever more tightly, his head slamming back against it. 

Even now, he’s remembering her command to not touch, but if the tension in his body and hands has anything to say about it, it’s growing more difficult by the second.

“You can touch me now,” she murmurs, pulling herself off his cock to lick a long, slow stripe up the side to the tip, her hands following behind to pump him as she takes the head into her mouth again. His reaction is immediate, spurred on by impatience, and he starts fucking her mouth in earnest, his hands guiding her head and his fingers tangled in her hair.

She loves it when he finally loses control and uses her selfishly, because it’s such a rare thing for him to only chase his own pleasure without regards to her own. His selflessness is one of the many things she loves about him, but also one of the more frustrating things, because sometimes she wants him to focus on himself and himself only. As he claims her mouth again and again, all she can do is sigh in pleasure; he deserves all this and more.

When he orgasms it is abruptly, and the only warning is the way his grip tightens on her hair, and the way his hips falter before stopping entirely. She softly sucks on him as he relaxes back into the chair with a heavy sigh, waiting until his whimpers at the overstimulation and his slight tugs on her hair signal for her to pull away. 

“Thank you,” he says, his head tilted back and a tired smile on his face as he closes his eyes. She meets his smile with one of her own, and the kiss quickly deepens as she climbs back onto his lap, pressing his cock between them.

“I’m not finished with you yet.” She drifts to his neck again, licking and sucking wherever she can, savoring the sensation of his beard scratching against her cheek.

“Oh?” he chuckles. “There’s more?”

“Mmhmm.” With a slight rock against him she tests the waters, but he stills her with a hand on her hip, telling her he’s not quite ready for that yet.

“And what exactly do you have planned?”

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

Blinking a few times, he blushes and swallows. “I… I see.” He takes a moment to recover, drumming the fingertip of his hand not clutching her against the arm of the chair and avoiding her gaze before nodding. “I… would like that very much.”

“Thought so,” she smiles, and they kiss again, much more tenderly than before. It’s always the quiet moments in the afterglow that she treasures the most, when he holds her tightly and loves her languidly. It’s cozy, a reminder of the love that they’ve shared for so long already and will for many years to come, and it-

“Oh!” She yelps in surprise when he suddenly rises, lifting her with him and laying her on the desk. “Seteth, what are you-”

“Shh, shh,” he shushes, mirroring her earlier actions, and kisses her to follow through. Even as she reciprocates she laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck as he sweeps another stack of documents off, bending over her with the intent to feel as much of her as possible. 

She learned early in their relationship to appreciate Nabatean stamina, but didn’t realize that he would be ready just quite yet. Even for him, this was a short time.   


(“Wow,” she had said the first time she’d noticed.

“What is it?”

“It comes back rather quickly for someone your age.” His indignant scoff was lost in a moan as she lightly tugged on his cock, then laid a kiss on the tip.

“I am not-” Another offended noise lost in a keening moan. “-ah, I am not  _ that _ old!”

“Of course not, baby.”

He was trying very hard to pout, but the fact that she took him into her mouth just at that moment was making it difficult.)

When he breaks away, his fingers hooking beneath the band of her tights and pulling them down, following the fabric with his lips, she realizes that she was mistaken. He’s not there quite yet. “Isn’t this supposed to be your treat?” she laughs lightly, his palms on her thighs gently spreading her legs.

“Certainly. It still is.”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

“If you believe that allowing me to pleasure you is not indulging me, then I am afraid that you are gravely mistaken.” Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to her thigh. The scratch of his beard only heightens the sensation of his touch, and she shivers. “Besides, would you rather sit and do nothing while we wait?”

She’s about to answer when he pushes the flat of his tongue against her, slowly dragging upwards over her pussy, and she instead gasps, tangling her hand in his hair. “No, this is good…”

“I thought so,” he nods, sounding rather smug, and dips his head between her legs to pleasure her. The first press of his tongue against her makes her gasp, and the next sigh; he’s had many years of practice, even before they coupled together, and has always devoted himself fully to learning her body, inside and out. It’s both a matter of pride and selflessness, she knows. He loves making her feel good, but he also loves knowing that no one else has quite been able to make her moan like he can.

Usually, he’s more vocal than she is during sex, not for a lack of appreciation, but simply because it’s not something that comes naturally to her. Even in that he’s learned to pay attention to her breathing and not her voice, for that is a more sure indicator of her pleasure than anything else. Regardless, she pushes herself to be a little louder than usual, because this is his treat, after all, and she knows that he likes to hear her voice. He only proves that when, in response to her gasps and whimpers, he groans deeply, the noise rumbling through his throat and up to his lips, making the feeling of them against her all the more delicious.

“Oh, Seteth… Seteth… Good boy,” she breathes, but only sparingly among the litany of other half-sighed words and his name. If she uses it too much, he’ll call it “trite” and sometimes, if he’s in a particularly snarky mood, “inane drivel,” but when it’s only something occasional, it makes him shiver and set about his task with a renewed effort, a chill running down his back as her moans sweetly praise him.

(“I am not a boy,” he’d protested the first time she’d used that phrase, blatantly ignoring the shock it had sent to his cock. 

“Aw, my big, strong, sweet man,” she’d cooed, pinching his cheeks, “is that better?”

He’d neglected to answer, instead choosing to press his rather red face into her breasts.)

Hooking his arms around her legs, he pulls her closer to him, and she rewards him with more cries of his name, both the alias and the true one tumbling forth from her lips. “Cichol… Cichol, please… oh… Seteth!”

His tongue brushes against her clit, and his fingers against her entrance as he murmurs something into her skin, unintelligible but with hints of “my love” within it. Roughly, she grabs his hair, tugging and urging him on.

“So good,” she gasps. He fairly preens under the praise, because he’s good at what he does, he  _ knows _ he’s good, and any little stroke to his ego may as well be to his cock too.

So is any command, she remembers, and she thinks it’s about time to remind him that she’s still the one in control. 

“Cichol… Cichol.” She attempts the most commanding tone she can when her husband’s mouth is on her pussy, which, to be honest, is more breathy and desperate than anything, but he recognizes the edge to her voice and looks up at her through half-lidded eyes, his tongue slowing but not stopping. “You’re doing so well for me,” she purrs, “but…” 

“Yes, my love?”

She shifts her hips, disappointed at even the brief loss of his tongue on her, and he takes the sign to continue, laying an almost reverent kiss on her clit before starting again. “Touch yourself. I want you to be ready for me.”

He breathes deeply as his hand falls beneath the desk, between his legs, and repeats himself, his voice closer to a growl than anything. “Yes, my love.” He returns to his task with a new zeal, even as his mouth stutters and whines against her, driven by his own pleasure, and her fingers curl more sharply in his hair, urging him on.

T he way they work together in the bedroom is a mirror of how flawlessly they used to do so on the battlefield, anticipating the other’s movements without any words, a perpetual give-and-take that led them to victory time and again. That was a long time ago, when the war left them no time for things such as this, but now things are happily changed, and-

The tension within her gets too much to ignore, too much to even think about anything else, and for a moment she allows herself to be as desperate and needy as he is, begging him with her own pleas and prayers for sweet release. He is more than happy to oblige—he always is–-and he does all that he can to draw her orgasm out when it comes, neglecting his own pleasure to further hers.

She takes a moment to relax as the intense feeling subsides, gathering her breath in her lungs and laying a hand across her eyes. As she does, she feels his lips brush against her inner thighs, and then there are kisses, soft, sweet little things, and it makes her smile. Slowly, she sits up, ignoring the pangs in her back from the hard wood of the desk (the eroticism of the location is a fair trade-off for the back pain that will come later, she thinks), pressing her foot into his chest as she does and pushing him back. “Thank you, baby. Now, let me look at you.”

He’s startled back into action, almost as if he forgot his cock in his hand, and he starts pumping again, his head falling towards his chest as the pleasure resumes. 

“No, no, up at me,” she says, hooking her foot under his chin to bring his gaze upwards, half-lidded and adoring as he stares up at her. “Does that feel good, Cichol?”

“It does,” he nods, swallowing thickly.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes, yes, Byleth, please… I…”

He’s so pretty when he begs, and she’d let him keep going if she was in a crueler mood. “Alright then. You’ve been so good for me, so I think it’s time you have a real reward. Switch,” she commands, patting the desk, and hops off. He fairly stumbles in his eagerness to stand, and she gives him a wry grin as he sits on the edge, his painfully hard cock bobbing with the motion. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

With a stiff nod he acquiesces, his eyes glued to her as she fetches a key from his robes, then turns to one of the lower drawers of his desk. Ages ago, she’d managed to convince him to keep a whole array of toys stashed away in the bottom drawer, for “convenience.” He’d been flabbergasted at the suggestion initially, and, to be honest, probably still was even by the time he agreed to it, much to his tight-lipped embarrassment, but he couldn’t argue against the… practical aspect. There had been too many times that Byleth was nearly caught carrying various risqué objects in her bag for Seteth’s comfort. 

The vial of lube is right where she hastily stored it last time, as is the strap-on, tucked away in its richly lined box that had been the subject of much embarrassment when it was purchased. If the expectant, lustful look he’s giving her right now is any indicator, he no longer regrets it.

Lazily, she moves between his legs, and takes her time securing the toy to her body, letting each leather strap hug and kiss her skin as she watches his reaction. His hand moves more frantically, spurred on by what’s to come, and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, a hint of his fangs visible even in the dim light. She places a hand on his chest, urging him to lay down, and he does so without hesitation, still keeping his head lifted to watch her drip lube across her fingertips, coating them thoroughly.

“Alright, no more touching now. Spread your legs for me, baby.” 

With a lustful sigh he does, opening himself up for her even more than he already was. It’s beautiful, she thinks, and considers telling him so, but as she runs her palms from his hips to his inner thighs, she realizes that she doesn’t need words, that the way her hands admire him tell him exactly what she wants to. She bends down to lay a kiss on his stomach, then follows the soft trail of hair down his navel to his cock with her lips, ending with a kiss there as her fingers find his asshole.

She has to admit that this is one of her favorite parts, watching him slowly fall apart as she works him open. The way his chest heaves when her fingertips brush just the right spot, how his face flushes when she murmurs his true name and tells him how she can’t wait to fuck him, how his lips part and a groan rises from deep within his chest when he feels the stretch of another finger inside him… it’s all so perfect, and just for her, only for her. It’s a common saying that some things are for the goddess’s eyes only, and a saint,  _ her _ saint, looking so positively sinful, certainly is.

She takes her time in preparing him, not only because she doesn’t want to hurt him, but also because it’s so gratifying to watch him squirm and hear him call her name. When she removes her fingers he gasps at the emptiness, and his entreaties increase tenfold. 

“Please… please,” he murmurs. Fodlan’s goddess is merciful, and so she gives him what he wants, pushing slowly into him before suddenly withdrawing, and bottoming out as quickly as she left. He cries out in ecstasy, panting and nearly sobbing as he thanks her, as she fucks him, as he scrambles to find words but is left with only low moans of pleasure.

If circumstances (and venue) were different she would begin slowly, but both are too impatient for that right now, and besides, it’s simply repayment for the many, many times he’s fucked her mercilessly on this desk. His eyes beg her for the rough treatment as he hooks his legs around her waist, encouraging her to seat herself within him again, and with a light tug on his cock that makes him sob, she gives him what he wants. 

Oh, how Saint Cichol looks positively divine on his desk below her, his eyes fluttering shut and his pretty mouth panting and his hair a sweaty mess and his skin all aflush. She moves, thrusting into him more harshly and making the leather straps around her hips chafe a little, but it’s worth it when he tilts his head back, his eyes squeezed shut and a gasping moan slipping from his mouth like honey. 

What a privilege, what an honor it is to make a holy man lose control like this, to surrender himself to pleasure, to surrender himself to  _ her _ . Her hands glide over his chest, glistening with sweat and heaving with every breath, and her fingers tangle in his soft green hair before sliding down to hold his hips so that she can enter him fully. The motion draws another delicious moan from him, and their bodies move in rhythm, his so pliant and yielding to her every push and pull and demand.

What a privilege it is to love him and be loved by him.

One of his hands finds hers, gripping it tightly, and it’s such a simple yet sweet gesture that it almost makes her pause to appreciate it. Even when being taken on his own desk, he’s still so sentimental, so sweet, so utterly Seteth. She tugs his opposite leg upwards, letting it rest on her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the inside of his calf.

His neglected cock bounces with each thrust, but she’s not too concerned; he’s come untouched more times than he’ll admit, and with how worked up he already was, she doesn’t think that possibility is distant at all. Just the thought of it encourages her to use this new angle to its full potential, and when she finds his prostate he sobs, his intertwined fingers digging into her own. 

Again, and again, and again, she hits that sweet spot, listening to the litany of prayers to her, only to her, his love, his wife, his goddess, fall out of his mouth, half-nonsensical but all the sweeter for it. “Byleth… Byleth, I…” He’s struggling to get the words out, between gasps and pants.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Her thumb strokes the side of his hand, a soothing motion in contrast to her harsh thrusts. “Come for me, Cichol.”

With a choked cry of her name he does, streaking his torso in white.

* * *

Seteth nearly falls asleep in his chair, his cheek resting on his fist, as Byleth cleans up the mess they made of his desk. He’d insisted on helping, initially, but she’d told him to sit down and rest in the same commanding tone she told him to touch himself in, and so he did, exhaustion quickly overtaking him. “Come on, baby,” she murmurs, gently rousing him as she bends down to kiss his forehead, her fingers deftly fixing the still-loosened buttons of his jacket while she’s at it. “Time for bed.”

“There’s work to be done,” he mumbles, trying to be serious as his eyes flutter open, but utterly failing at concealing his drowsy, satisfied smile.

“It can wait until tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

“You are right, as always.” He pulls her into a kiss, slow and deep. “I love you, Byleth.”

“I love you too,” she smiles, then notices his hand reaching behind her, scrabbling to catch hold of a few papers. “Seteth, you sneak!”

“To be honest, I had little faith that that would succeed. Very well, then. Off to bed we go.”

“With  _ no _ paperwork,” she says, tugging him out of the chair and towards the hallway, his hand firmly in hers.

“No paperwork. On my honor.”

With a smile, she stands on her tiptoes for a kiss, and he softly closes the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> It was an honor to be able to both be the writing mod and contribute to the setleth zine! It was such a great experience and everyone did an amazing job.
> 
> I also wrote a sfw fic for it, which you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089044
> 
> And here is the zine's twitter, where you can check out everyone else's amazing work: https://twitter.com/setlethzine


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